


Just Another Drop

by Lunarium



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, ToT: Monster Mash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-17 06:13:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8133322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunarium/pseuds/Lunarium
Summary: Berúthiel smiled as she turned the mirror over and locked it back into place.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kimaracretak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kimaracretak/gifts).



“She is a witch, I am warning you,” said the man, Oldûr of the southwestern-most region of Rhûn, to King Tarannon. “I speak only to your benefit. Much talk there has been among my people of this women in my lands, for her magic is infamous, though it appears you may not be privy to it. Rid of her immediately lest soon you find yourself clenched in her grasp and at her mercy! That black-hearted woman must never be trusted!” 

The poisonous words of the wretched man carried down the hall and drifted into the quiet room where Queen Berúthiel rested on her bed, eyes unseeing as they gazed up on the ceiling, a open and unread book settled beside her. Purrs accompanied the man’s cold words as something soft and warm brushed against her naked legs and cheeks; the flash of green eyes, of yellow, and even orange—her allies, her cats, all coming to comfort her from Oldûr. But these were not words she had not heard before.

Perhaps one day her husband would cast her out of this forsaken place in Gondor and she could return to reside within the warmer walls of her blessed home in Umbar, but first, Oldûr had to be taken care of.

For in her hand she slowly turned a hand mirror, twisting the silver disc from the handle without breaking. Then turning the mirror the other way, she peered into the dull surface, staring into gloss for a few moments before the shapes appeared, of the world beyond, the tiny window which she sought a distance away. The mirror itself was crafted from the walls of Ered Nimrais. Green fog misted the surface, and bodies flittered by before a skeletal head passed and stopped, eye socket peering back at her. 

She smiled coyly and waited. 

When Oldûr at last left Minas Tirith, it began. First, it came in the form of perilous storms meeting him unexpectedly as he tried to cross across from Mordor and into Rhûn. With little to no visibility his horse, unbeknownst to Oldûr, went west instead, striding down roads and blind directions ‘til he found himself seeking shelter in great white mountains, the only thing which he could find among the never-ending storm. 

But at the mouth of the cave, he did slip and fall, and when he found his footing, he could not find his way back. Search though he might, he never found the entrance, though light eventually did find him, faint and green with sinister laugh and boney touches at his hair and beard, raspy words next to his ears, and foul stench assaulting his nose. 

By the time anyone would come across Oldûr of Rhûn again in the Ered Nimrais, his bones were undistinguishable from the other remains of the Army of the Dead, for his spirit had joined them. Just another drop in the sea of wretched warriors, eternally screaming for salvation, for freedom out of their wretched and cursed existence.   
Berúthiel smiled as she turned the mirror over and locked it back into place.


End file.
